


Stripped

by Jenwryn



Category: Death Note
Genre: Birthday, First Time, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-29
Updated: 2009-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Near has nodded silently in response to Rester's quiet good night and has closed his bedroom door behind him when his ears register the soft hum of someone else's breathing. [Near's 18th Birthday Fic]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stripped

**Author's Note:**

  * For [passthebutter](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=passthebutter).



> A while ago, my friend [passthebutter](http://passthebutter.livejournal.com/) requested I write some Near/Mello for her; and I tried, but found it(absurdly) difficult. Apparently Near's birthday was enough to make it function for me, though! So, uh, this is for Near's birthday and also for you, sweetie. Title comes from a Shiny Toy Gun's [song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2cosH1LauuE) she introduced me to. Aaaand, yes, this is painfully late. Anyway, HAPPY (BELATED) BIRTHDAY NEAR~! ♥

Near has nodded silently in response to Rester's quiet _good night_ and has closed his bedroom door behind him when his ears register the soft hum of someone else's breathing. Near isn't surprised – nobody can sneak up on him in a building with this much security – but his fingers still flex a little as he slides his hand along the wall, in the direction of the light switch.

“Leave it,” says Mello's voice from the other side of the room. “If you wait a moment, you'll see that there's more than enough light coming in from outside. The moon's not much to speak about, sure, but the city is plenty illuminated.”

Near slides his hand back away from the switch; lets it rest against the frame of the door. He opens and closes his eyes slowly, repeatedly, the way that Matt had taught him after the astronomy class the pair of them had taken one summer. The technique works as well as it always has, the room creeping into focus one blink at a time. Long shadows pull back to form wardrobes and shelves, and the bed grows defined in its whiteness.

Mello is a streak of contrasting darkness. He's leaning against the furthest wall, between two of the windows. One of his hand rests against the blinds; they shuffle in discord at his touch. He has one of his boots pulled up behind him, too. Near wonders whether, tomorrow morning, when the sun rises and the sleeping world wakes, there will be a bootprint left against the pale plaster. Dark. Even Mello's hair is concealed beneath black. Near closes his lashes, re-opens them, and realises that it's a bandana tied with an almost jaunty knot. Near wants to walk across the room and take the cloth away. He wants to see Mello's hair in the outside light, gaining colour as his eyes adjust. He wants to know if Mello's scent is still the same, or whether it's changed now that his clothes gleam of leather.

“How's Matt?” Near asks, his fingers creeping back to the door and re-assuring him that it is, indeed, securely locked. He slides his key-pass into the right pocket of his loose pants and takes a step forwards. He feels strangely self-conscious standing here like this, too aware of his limbs and hands. He twirls his hair with one set of fingers, knotting curls around his knuckles, but that still leaves the other set unoccupied. He jags his thumb against the cotton of his trousers and dislikes the asymmetry of his own breathing.

“Sends his love,” Mello answers, with just enough sincerity for Near to believe it, but not enough to make him feel uncomfortable. The blond pulls the dark material away from his hair and loops it through his belt; Near wonders if his pleased sigh is audible, across the distance, when Mello shakes his head a little and the lights cling golden. “You're less surprised than I'd imagined you'd be,” Mello segues calmly, flicking his fringe from his eyes. “I was hoping for a squeak or something, at the very least.”

Near permits himself a small grin. “I followed you on camera from the side entrance.” He walks to the dresser and pauses there for a second. He wants to pick up a toy to hold, but decides against it, and continues on towards Mello. He comes to a standstill beside the older boy, leaning up against the wall himself, with a window between them. He peeps at Mello sideways. Quiet. He turns his head and gazes directly, waiting for a response to his statement. A response to the tone in which he'd said it.

Mello laughs. “Knew it was too easy.”

He sounds happy, confident; more confident than Near can remember ever hearing him. Near's stomach shifts warmly.

“You expected me anyway, didn't you?” Mello adds, carefully casual. His eyes meet Near's.

Near steps sideways, into the space between them. He turns and looks through the blinds, looks at the world beyond. He counts lights, small and large, white and yellow, flashing, stationary, the lights on cars coming closer and moving further away. Near has learnt a little bit about people since he left Wammy's. Near has learnt what it feels like, when their gaze rests upon you, to be able to read the things written in their eyes. Near has learnt, in retrospect, what it was he had been reading, unknowingly, as a child, in these blue eyes beside him.

“Expected...?” he repeats. “Expected, no.”

_Hoped_, yes, but he doesn't say that.

“Eh, Near,” grumps Mello. He shakes at the blinds and makes them rattle like tumbling dominoes. “You only turn eighteen once, you know. Of course I was going to come see you, you bloody asocial nit.”

Mello's voice is gruffly disparaging, but there's something beneath it which steals away its bite. Near studies Mello openly. He counts the changes in Mello's profile. Near wants to lean over and trace the slope of Mello's jaw, wants to run his fingers where a razor passes, wants to place his thumb upon the line where Mello's lips meet.

Near bunches both of his hands against the edge of the windowsill.

He watches as Mello pulls as small bottle of liquor from his vest.

“If we were back―” Mello begins, and Near silently fills in the blank for him (_if we were back in Winchester, if we were back at Wammy's, if were back home, home, home_). Mello titches, and continues, “If we were back in the UK, I'd have gotten you shitfaced and seduced you, you know that, right?”

Near knows it. He leans in closer towards the blind. His nose pushes lightly against one of the white strips of plastic. It's still so very warm, even though it's night. Near thinks it might rain. He wants to start counting lights again, but Mello shatters his equilibrium by yanking at the blind's cord and sending it hurling upwards.

“However, we aren't in the UK,” says Near calmly, as though the sudden shift of the blind, the sudden gleam of the city bare before him, hadn't shaken him down to his ankles. “And the law is very clear when it states that we're obligated to obey local legislation as well as our own. I'm eighteen, not twenty-one.”

Mello snorts, but pushes the little bottle of alcohol into the corner of the windowsill anyway. Its reflection gleams. He leans back again, his hands behind his head. Near presses his cheek against the glass and watches him. Mello's arms look pale in the shifting light. Near can tell that Mello is waiting for something. The tension in Near's own stomach makes it perfectly clear that he's waiting for something himself.

Near counts window lights. “I don't need to be... shitfaced... for that,” he whispers, when he reaches thirty-six. It sounds stilted and unbearably coy to his own ears, but Mello just unfurls himself like a cat and _grins._ Near doesn't follow Mello's movement with his eyes, but he hears the sound of Mello sitting at the edge of the bed, the hush-hush of the mattress shifting beneath Mello's slender weight. He hears Mello take off one heavy boot, then the other. He hears Mello stand again, too. Mello's bare feet whisper against the carpet as he walks up behind Near.

“Everyone has always mis-read you so badly, Nate River,” Mello murmurs, voice tucked in close to Near's ear.

Near shivers at the sound of that name on the lips of the only person left alive who knows it. Near shivers at the heat of Mello's body, hot in the warm night air, pressing against his back. Near shivers, too, at the way Mello's arms wrap around him, pulling him into an embrace. Near doesn't bother stopping the contented sigh, which comes from his own mouth, when Mello's lips press down against white curls.

“Mello,” he whispers.

Mello makes a small sound which means nothing and which means absolutely everything. He places a kiss at the curve of Near's neck.

“You could stay,” Near finds himself saying. He means,_ for the night_. He means,_ for the case._ He means, _for always._ He wants to turn within Mello's embrace and press his face against Mello's shoulder. He wants to kiss and cling and cry and beg and taunt and tease.

He stands still. He memorises the motion of Mello's hands against his cotton-covered belly. Soft, soft, comforting.

“I'm here now, aren't I?” Mello mutters.

Near doesn't answer, but he does turn around. He places his hands flat against Mello's shoulders and pushes himself upwards, to sit upon the windowsill. “This game is so dangerous,” he observes calmly. He slides his hands away from Mello's shoulders, into Mello's hair. Mello's lips part but he doesn't say anything, just shifts his body closer against Near's. He slides his hands beneath Near's thighs, and makes another nothing-everything sound when Near takes the hint and wraps his legs around Mello's waist.

“So dangerous...” says Near a second time.

They both know that he isn't talking about the here and the now.

“Hmm,” concurs Mello teasingly, his hands on Near's hips now. “Maybe you should make use of your birthday wish, then. Practise a bit of the old _carpe diem_ while we're both still playing.”

Near squeezes his thighs reprovingly at Mello's flippant tone, tugging Mello's hair roughly to ensure that the blond doesn't misinterpret his message. He frowns. “Nobody here knows my birthday,” he says. “I didn't have a cake.”

“So?”

Near lets go of Mello's hair and brushes his thumb against Mello's temple; he can feel a vein throb beneath fine skin. “So I don't have a birthday wish.”

Mello appears to be stuck between snorting and grinning. “Eh, what? You still get a birthday wish, cake or no cake. It's by default.” His fingers creep up Near's hips. His grin has clearly won out. Near loves the sight of it. He doesn't even care that Mello is talkingn nonsense. Mello's hands have made their way to Near's back now.

Near permits himself a grin of his own. He leans in and licks at the vein on Mello's temple, just for the sheer joy of glancing down at Mello's eyes widening in surprise. Mello's hands tighten against him, and Near squirms happily. He thinks of past birthdays, thinks of his childhood, thinks of the way that Mello feels against him and the way that Mello can make him feel when nobody else can. Near questions what it must be like, to be Mello. He ponders, fleetingly, upon what Mello would do right now if he were in Near's position, but that's an easily answered question. Near wonders whether it's going to be different from when they were younger. Different from when Mello had pushed his lips against Near's lips and then had pulled away again, blushing fiercely and angry, clutching at his crucifix while Near had just sat there in astonished paralysis. Different from when Near had grabbed hold of the strap of Mello's bag and Mello had just looked at him, looked at him, pressed their mouths close and warm, and then turned and ran, leaving Near to graze his knuckles against the floorboards in frustration, alone but for Mello's voice left on in his head.

And it _is_ different, oh.

Near tilts his head downwards, just a fraction, just enough for his invitation and intent to be obvious only if Mello is already hoping for it. Mello makes a indefinable noise and tilts his own head towards Near's. This time, they don't pull apart. This time, their bodies push closer together even as their mouths do. And when Near tugs at Mello's hair by accident, Mello moans into his mouth, and when Mello's nails catch at Near's neck, Near just gasps and learns how to kiss harder.

~

The pale lights, from outside, have swept right across the room by the time the pair of them do. Near sits upon the bed, almost unembarrassed by his own nakedness simply because he is too distracted by Mello's. Near wants to reach out and put his hands everywhere at once, when Mello takes off his last piece of clothing and stands bare before him, crucifix gleaming. Mello is confident, his feet apart, his hands brushing hair from his face, his blue eyes grinning. Near feels soft, skinny, in comparison. Near feels out of his depth. Near feels that this must be what it's like to truly want something. His whole body is buzzing. He can barely speak, but Mello shifts in closer when Near opens his mouth wordlessly, and Mello leers and lays himself down upon the covers when Near motions with his hand.

Near wants to touch him so much that it aches. Near kneels on the rutched cotton, his fingers bunched in against themselves. He's scared that if he starts touching, he might never be able to stop. He's even more scared of the sheer irrationality of that fear itself.

Mello mumbles something vaguely profane. He reaches out, grabs hold of Near's wrist, and presses Near's palm down against the flat of his naked stomach. His gaze is fixed sharply upon Near's. He says, “Near,” and drags Near's hand upwards, drags it upwards towards his own mouth. Near doesn't want to pull away, though he has to move his whole body to follow, so vulnerable in his own nakedness. It's alright. Mello is only looking at Near's face. He kisses Near's fingers. He sucks them into his mouth, one by one. His breath is so hot in the warm air. The tip of his tongue makes Near tremble.

Mello says, “If you want me, you know, it's why I'm here. Offer doesn't last forever, though, Nate. I'm not a fucking charity.”

He lets go of Near's hand. He waits.

Near breathes out with jagged longing. His fears have been given founding, but it doesn't matter anymore. His brain is spun silver at the reality of Mello's skin beneath the lines of his palm. Near touches and touches and touches, and Mello lets him. Mello moves towards his hand, not away from it. Mello doesn't conceal the shiver that Near's damp-kissed fingers leave in their wake. Mello doesn't bite back his moan when Near leans in and grazes his lips against Mello's chest. Mello doesn't hide his approval when Near grows bolder, and slides his hands downwards, down through the light, coarse hair creeping towards Mello's bellybutton. Mello doesn't halt his gasp, either, crooked and stark, when Near wraps his fingers around Mello's dick, and runs his thumb upwards.

“Nate,” Mello groans, skin pale in the outside light, hair falling across his eyes.

Near has never felt so significant, has never felt so right. He realises that he wants to make Mello come. He wants to make Mello groan his name like that a thousand times over. He wants to be closer, closer, so much closer. His own body is moving in time with his hands. He can feel Mello's thighs beneath him. He wants to feel them around him, wants to see Mello hot and flushed, wants to know him from the inside.

Near's brain stutters to a stop, his hands faltering.

“I've never―” begins Near, then realises that he's stating the blindingly obvious. He lets go of Mello and just kneels there, covering his own erection with his hands. Suddenly it's awkward. Suddenly the lights are too revealing.

“It's okay,” says Mello, and there isn't a scrap of mockery to be found. “I – we can – it's more about feeling than thinking. Let me―” He sits up, hair swaying around his face, dick bobbing as he moves. He pushes Near's hands aside. Near lets out a pleased whine_,_ as Mello's genius fingers close around him and begin to stroke. Near's a boy, he's touched himself before, he's brought himself to orgasm, but he's never felt like this. His whole body is boiling, the air is too humid, his stomach is curling in time to his flexing toes. It's because it's someone else. No, it's because it's Mello. It's Mello. It's Mello's hand upon him, Mello's voice murmuring, Mello's breath hot, as he moves in closer, as he urges Near to rise higher upon his knees, urges Near to kneel before him as he kneels before Near. It's Mello, tilting his own hips in closer, Mello, rubbing himself against Near, pressing their dicks together, Mello, and it's like electricity running through him.

“Put your hand with mine,” Mello whispers, orders. Near allows himself to stop thinking, allows himself to simply _do_ – his fingers with Mello's fingers, his dick so warm against Mello's dick, faster and closer and damp now―

“Mello,” he whimpers.

Mello answers by gasping and grunting, quickening his hold and pleading, “Come for me, _come._..”

~

The cover and the blankets have been pushed off the end of the bed. The air is still warm, the summer night sky still dark but for the blinking, moving lights of the world beyond the window. Near opens his eyes, nothing but the sheet beneath him, dried fluids on his belly, and the vague awareness that his expression could quite probably be categorised as sporting a smile. Mello is seated next to Near, his legs crossed beneath him Indian-style, still naked except for the crucifix around his neck. The fingers of Mello's right hand are making damp curls at Near's temple. Near snugs his head in closer towards Mello's touch, unsure as to whether he ought to be apologetic for having dozed off. He's uncertain as to what Mello would say if he were to sit up and kiss him again, too. Near's terribly conscious of the fact that he's still naked with Mello, naked with Mello's cum dried upon his own belly – naked, and Mello is still here. “I never fall asleep like that,” Near mumbles against Mello's wrist.

“You ought to audition the finger-puppets a little more often, then, when you put yourself to bed,” Mello teases. Near glares at him, and Mello grins, the blueness of his eyes stained silver in the creeping lights. He lays down beside Near, head resting up on his hand. He darts in and strokes his tongue across Near's lips. “Happy birthday, Nate.”

Near grins beneath Mello's kiss, grins and nods. Acknowledges.

Mello lets his elbow drop away, so that his head falls back against the sheet. Near has to rise his own body upwards to keep kissing him. Mello's hair is soft and tangled, almost dark in this light, at least, when Near's shadow falls across him, at least, in contrast to the stark white of the bedding. Near tries to keep their bodies distanced even as his mouth presses closer. He's aware that he's growing hard again. He isn't sure whether they've technically had sex, because the finer politics of the matter still elude him slightly, but he rather thinks that they kind of have, and he isn't sure whether Mello wants to do it again.

Mello puts his arms around Near, pulling him in, pressing Near's dick up against Mello's body. The blond sucks at Near's bottom lip and murmurs, “You never actually said that you wanted me, you know.”

Trust Mello to require verbal affirmation. Mello's eyes are sharp, expectant. Near flirts with the idea that they're anxious, too, but it might be a trick of the light. Near dislikes how it makes him feel. Telling the truth isn't usually a difficultly for someone like himself. He enjoys being blunt. He's interested by the expressions that people get on their faces when he tells them things that are bald facts.

This is different.

Near makes knots in his fringe.

“I fail to see why it is necessary to state the obvious,” Near mutters.

“Hmm,” Mello purrs, achingly confident again. “I thought you liked playing games.”

Near blinks. “This is a game?”

“The whole of life is a damn game, Near. Sex certainly is. Give, take, push, pull, pleasure, pieces fitting together to make a whole.” Mello puffs a breath of air against Near's skin. “And maybe I just want to hear you say it.”

Mello has his hands on Near's hips, fingertips damp. Near wants to know whether Mello has done this before, this, sex, but is scared to ask for fear of either answer. Near wants to stand up and pull the blind back down, so that the world can feel a little smaller again. Mello is the epitome of certainty beneath him. Mello's eyes know the universe inside Near's head. Near thinks, thinks, asks himself how Mello would respond.

“It's _my_ birthday,” he says, waveringly. He licks his lips. With a little more confidence, “Maybe I want to hear Mello say it first.”

Mello smirks. “Hear me say that you want me? I can arrange that.”

Near frowns, annoyed, and pushes his body against Mello's. He makes his hip talk directly to Mello's dick.

Mello twitches and grins. “Okay, so I want you. It's hardly news. You know I've been saving myself for this birthday of yours, law-abiding little monk that you are.” He's laughing as he speaks, amused.

Near bites down on his tongue, dizzy. He knows that Mello understands that the best way to conceal the truth is to speak it directly, with the presumption that it will be discarded lightly. He tries to remind himself that Mello knows that he knows, and so is probably doing the opposite, but his brains are zipping away regardless. “News,” he echoes. “Saving.” Nonsensical, calm, terrified within. This dialogue feels so clumsy. Sex should be smoother than this, love should be smoother than this. Near knows that he loves Mello. He's had enough years on his own to work that much out. He shouldn't feel as though he's treading water. He breathes. He's an adult now. It doesn't compute. The right to tick a box on an electoral paper doesn't equate to adulthood within his mind. He wants one of the toys from the dresser. He doesn't know what he wants. He wants to press in against Mello again, wants to watch Mello come again. He wants to_ fuck_ him. The word is coarse. He hates it. He's blushing.

Mello is grinning too much, too knowingly.

“Mihael,” Near says. Mello falls still, watches him, returns to _waiting_. Mello's tongue darts across his lips like a gecko tasting the air for danger. Near feels the edge of significance again, and clings to it tightly. “Mihael,” he whispers unsteadily. “May I have you?”

Mello sits up slowly, one of his hands beneath Near's backside as he moves, so that the pair of them shift together. They sit, face to face. Mello's breath is warm on Near's lips. Mello's eyes are dark. “It's a dangerous game,” Mello murmurs, and this time Near isn't sure what they're talking about anymore; sex, Kira, life, death, this, that. Mello's hands are warm. Mello's lips are even warmer. Near is losing track of himself, losing track of everything which is not Mello. His body is on repeat, his body thinks it knows this now; eager. His hands are on Mello's skin, his dick _wants_. Near can hear himself panting slightly, thinks that Mello ought to find it off-putting. Mello's own breath is short too, Near finds the sound arousing.

Near suddenly properly registers that Mello's fingers are slick and wet, have been so this whole time. Near can't understand why until he sees the little tube of lubricant near the pillow. Near isn't a genius for nothing, but all the intelligence in the world can't stop his cheeks from growing hotter.

Mello follows his gaze, chuckles, and runs a finger down the middle of Near's back. “You're cute when you blush.”

Near glares, but he still can't stop his skin from colouring. If Mello has done... what Near thinks he's done... then that means that Mello was presuming that Near would wake and want to be with him again. It means that Mello was counting on it. It means that Mello wants it, because even birthdays don't make Mello charitable enough to do things he doesn't want to do.

Near wonders if closing his eyes would help with the light-headedness.

Mello kisses him, and Near gives up on finding a cure. Near walks his hands lower, and his fingers reach trails of wet coolness on Mello's skin. He ghosts his fingertips against the pale insides of Mello's thighs. Mello spreads his legs and leans back onto his palms, confident in his own nakedness. Near steadies his breathing, then places his thumb against Mello's perineum. Mello watches Near intently. Near wonders what the blond would say if Near told him that his dick looks nice, standing itself up from amongst the blondness around it, but decides that it's not worth testing. Near isn't entirely sure if he's supposed to ask for permission for what he wants to do, but logic does suggest that Mello wouldn't be here like this – wouldn't have done... things... while Near dosed – if he didn't want Near to. Near places the tip of his index finger against Mello's hole, pushes in to his knuckle, frowns, then pulls warily back. Near doesn't care how lubricated it is, there's no way that Mello could possibly enjoy that, no. There's no way that Near can do it, regardless of what his dick is trying to tell his fingers.

“Eh,” says Mello, a slight blush across his own cheeks now, a peeved expression his face to try and cover it up. “Watch then.” His voice is bored, but he actually avoids Near's gaze, as he pulls one of his own knees up and slides his hand down. He slips a finger inside himself.

Near decides that he's allowed to stare.

Mello's finger buries deep, then slides back a ways, and deep again. By the time it's joined by a second, Near has decided that Mello has definitely one this before, often, and when Mello does something with his fingers inside that makes himself jolt, Near decides, furthermore, that he wishes it were his own fingers having that effect. Near barely notices that his hand has slid down his thigh and is stroking his own dick slowly, slowly. Mello notices. Mello pulls his fingers free and positively launches himself at Near, a reproving expression on his face. Near falls back against the sheets. Mello's weight is heavy on him, Mello's hands sticky against Near's chest. Mello straddles him, kneels over him, knees up. Mello's gnawing at his lip. Suddenly Near is certain that the older boy really has never done this with anyone else before.

“M-mello,” Near starts.

Mello grins.

Near has barely had time to even begin to remember everything he's ever read about this kind of sex and then Mello is lowering himself down. It's so warm and so tight and suddenly Near wants to come, right, right now. Mello has this look of intense concentration on his face, his eyes closed. He's gripping at Near's shoulders with those slicked up hands of his. Near knows that if he _does_ come he'll probably never forgive himself. Near does equations in Arabic in his head, tries not to move, resists jerking himself upwards, deeper into Mello's body. He tries to remember how to breathe.

Finally, finally Mello opens his eyes again, and gasps, “Good? It feels good?”

_Incomprehensibly so_, Near wants to say. The best he can do is nod, and what was supposed to be obliging verbal confirmation comes out as a burble of pleasure-heavy noises. Mello relaxes his grip on Near's shoulders a little, relaxes his whole body. Mello shifts his feet and pushes himself upwards along Near's dick. Near can't help the noise he makes. Near can't help the noise he makes as Mello lowers back down again, either. Near can't help it if his hips jerk up to meet Mello's downward push. Mello's face is still concentrated. His fingers dig into Near with every upwards motion, dig even deeper with every slide down. Near is desperately trying to think, feel, move, breathe all at once. Mello might never have done this with someone else before but Near knows, knows from the noise Mello made when his fingers were inside himself, that Mello knows how to make himself come from within. Near knows that he needs to do it even better. Books, books, facts in his head to distract himself from coming. He visualises every diagram he's ever seen, tries better angle his hips on Mello's next down push. He isn't sure, he thinks he'd know, what would Mello―?

Mello's breathing is heavy, heated. Near can barely think, but Mello still lets him move so that Near's the one on top, lets him move so that Mello's the one with Near's hands beneath his thighs. “Nnn,” says Mello gutturally, now that he's not the one doing most of the moving. Mello's breath grows shorter as Near shifts the centre of his own body's gravity and pushes in again.

Mello bucks, and his eyes jerk open.

It's Near's turn to grin.

Think like Mello, think like Mello, don't think, don't think at all. Near lets go of everything but here and now, mouth open with concentration, world closed out by the pleasure humming inside of him. Mello's muscles shift around him with every thrust, squeezing, stroking, tugging. Mello meets every push with a push of his own, his knees shaking against Near as Near moves faster, fucking him, fucking him frantically, some small part of his brain screaming out that his body's going to give in, going to ache like hell, but he doesn't care. Near doesn't care that there's sweat running down his back, doesn't care that his hair is sticking to his forehead, doesn't care that the lubricant is growing warm and that the sounds are growing obscene. He tries to keep his rhythm but he's losing it, tries to focus on Mello, but Mello is grunting in a tone that just makes Near push harder, deeper, that angle memorised in his mind now, making Mello squirm and shake beneath him. So good, so good, so good, and Mello is keening _NearNateNear_, Mello's dick jerking in Near's hand, Mello's muscles moving, pulling, and it's the sound of Near's name, and the pulse of Mello's cum against his fingers, and Near falls over the edge, hips pushed as close to Mello as can be, and the heat of Mello around him as he jolts and stills and moans and comes.

~

There aren't as many lights outside now, the streetlights turning off as the sun begins to creep upwards. It's still warm, but Mello has pulled the sheet up over them anyway. The room is still but for their breathing. There's the shadow of a dark bootprint against the wall. Near is glad to have woken up first. Near is glad to be able to lay with his head against Mello's arm, with his hand on Mello's chest, not moving, just soaking up Mello's presence. He knows that when Mello wakes, Mello will leave.

Eventually, Mello stirs. Mello opens his eyes, rubs at them with the back of his hand, and looks at Near looking at him. Near thinks he's going to move away, but then he sighs and pulls Near closer instead.

“It isn't my birthday anymore,” protests Near, against his own better judgement.

Mello snorts. “Genius, you are.”

Near finds that vaguely offensive but, on the other hand, Mello has his arms around him and Near doesn't want to provoke an argument right now. So he just shrugs, and tries to wriggle surreptitiously closer. Not surreptitiously enough, apparently, because Mello rolls onto his side and puts his other arm around Near. He pulls Near in close, so that Near has his face against Mello's chest. Near wishes that the sun would stop rising, and for once doesn't care what an irrational sentiment such a thought contains. Mello's hands on him belong there.

“It's a dangerous game,” Mello mumbles.

Near kisses at Mello's chest self-consciously. He wriggles his own arms around Mello. He interlocks his fingers together against Mello's back, as though he can keep him here forever.

Near counts down the moments until Mello leaves. Near counts Mello's heartbeats.

“Dangerous,” Near agrees.

It doesn't even matter what they're talking about anymore.


End file.
